LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



w£M 












LIFE'S 



VERSES 






SECOND SERIES -- 
/ ■ 




F. O. ATTWOOD 
H. W. MCVICKAR 



ILLUSTRATED 

BY 
ALFRED BRENNAN 
J. A. MITCHELL 
AND OTHERS 



O. HERFORD 
A. E. STERNER 



NEW YORK 
COPYRIGHT, 1SS6, BY 

WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN 

1886 



AUG ?01886' 






U4T 



COPYRIGHT, 18S6, 

BY 

WHITE, STOKES, & ALLEN. 



PRESS OF FLEMING, BREWSTER &. ALLEY 
31 A 33 WEST 230 STREET, NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS. 



A. D. 1885 

An Earthly Paradise, 
An Eclipse of Venus, 
An Invocation 
Belinda, M.D. 



. M. E. TV. . 
T. P. S. . 
Idle Idyller . 
. C. H. 

Mark Mallow 



Bishop and the Ballet 

Girl. The . . . Sekadee 



Chansonnette, A 

Fickle Gale, A 

Frozen Out . 

German, The 

Her Wicker Chair 

How 

How Could You Fail 

(Im)Modesty . 



. R. King 
Idle Idyller . 
James Jt-ffny Roche 
. M. Este 
J. K. Bangs . 
. Clyde 



Robert Grant 



19 
>5 
48 
1 1 
.38 

5o 
18 

43 
44 
27 
54 
14 
7 
35 



CONTENTS. 



Imprudent Prudence, Idle Idytter . 

Indian Summer . . . E. G. S. 

Just My Luck . . Walter Clarke 

La BELLE Tromboniste, Charles G. D. Roberts 

Last Beaux of Summer, 

The . . . . J. K. Bangs . 

Last Guests, The, Harold Van Santvoord 

Lines C. H. 

Lines . . . H. L. Satterlee 

Little Brother of the 

Rich, A . . . . E. M. S. . 

Love Song, A . . Id/,- Idytter . 

Maternity .... Ovell 

Messenger Boy, The . . C. H. 

Moon-burnt . . . M. M. G. . 

Mother's Plaint, The, Carlyle Smith 

Musing 

My Tiger . . . . J. D. S. . 

Ode to the Full Moon, Allen Kelly . 

Oh ! Where is Love 

A-hiding? . . Warden Maylowe 



40 
18 



41 
55 



34 
8 

5' 
55 
36 
47 
25 

29 



CONTENTS. 



Poem of Poverty. A . . M. B. 
Poet's Miseries, A . Ben Wood Davis 
Poetical Impecuniosity, W. J. D. . 
Poor Young Man to His Girl, A 
Remorse . . . . M. . 

Rendezvous, A . -J- -"'• Mitchell 
Tempora Mutantur . W. S. Case . 

Tennis H. IV. F. . 

TITLE Clear, A . James Jeffrey Roche 

To a Contributor 

To My Lady of Boston . Vir 

To Prue with Her Candle, Idle IdyUer . 

Tommy's Tale . . . Sekadee 

'Twixt the Cup and the Lip 

Two Scenes from Winter and One from Some 

We Close at 2.30 P.M. . 0. H. 

Wilting M. B. 



er Else 



PAGE 

37 
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36 
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17 
34 



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46 

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26 

49 
56 
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^|y only 6ooks> 
' COere womanV^ool^&j 
\f\iriS fofjy\a(f tt/eyvetauQ^t me . 



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HOW COULD YOU FAIL. 



I SING a maiden fair, 
I sing an easy chair 
With carvings quaint and rare 

And arms. 
Ah, foolish easy chair, 
When you had Kitty there, 
How could you fail to dare 
To use vour arms? 



LINES. 

Written on a fly-leaf of H. C. Bunner's " Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere." 

YE gentle airs so sweetly blown 
From Arcady and other places, 
Telling of fields of hay new-mown. 
Of leafy lanes with sun-lit spaces, 
Of loving hearts and dimpled faces. 
Of hurried kisses — long embraces, 
Of tangled curls and tumbled laces — 
Of every careless joy that 's known ! 

Breathe soft, with blossom-freighted wings, 
On young and old, on slaves and kings ; 
And while our minstrel picks the strings, 
Whisper the notes he sweetly sings — 
Ye gentle airs. 

H. L. Satterlee. 



THE MESSENGER BOY. 

(SONNET.) 

OFT have I seen him — Hermes' godchild — stand 
Gazing with sad yet fascinated stare 
Into a candy shop, whose dainties rare 
Fills his young soul with dreams of Fairy-land. 
Across his lips he holds, in one wee hand, 
A telegram, and pipes thereon an air. 
The while his eye roams from the rich iclair 
To linger on the mint-stick's twisted band. 

Gaze on, O boy ! gaze on — yet would I fain 

Receive my telegram — if mine it be — 
Ere the unsilenced robins nest again, 

Ere spring's sweet violets perfume the lea. 
Ere man shall have " A Drowsy Tortoise " ta'en 

As the true meaning of thy " A. D. T." 

C.H. 




I DO not like the game at all, 
And fail to see the fun 
Of rushing madly round and round 
For hours upon a tennis ground 
Beneath a July sun. 

I played it once, because I heard 
'T was such a " perfect " game ; 
What happened I can scarcely say — 
1 only know that since that day 
I've never felt the same. 

The first ball hit me very hard 

Before I 'd time to move — 

And no one seemed to care at all 
Except because I 'd stopped the ball 

And made " fifteen to love ! " 



And then they laughed across the net 

And served a "gentle ball," 
At which I struck with all my might 
And sent it flying out of sight 

Behind a neighboring wall. 



My partner was a Harvard lad. 
With whom I 'd had some fun, 

But as the games went on, he eyed 
The girl upon the other side 
As if she'd been the one. 



And so we played for what seemed hours 
Across that dazzling net. 

Until at last I overheard 

My partner breathe a wicked word, 
Because we 'd " lost the set ! " 



Of course, for those who brave the sun 

Prepared to pay the price ; 
And rush about with tumbled hair, 
And like to hear men curse and swear — 

It may be very nice. H. IV. F. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE HOPE OF RECOVERING AN UMBRELLA. 

I'VE given up riddles 
And dancing and fiddles, 

To humor your bent ; 
I Ye given up dining 
And taken to whining — 

(The // I resent) — 
This long Lenten season, 
Of course, is the reason — 

But never I meant 
To give up, mia bella. 
My London umbrella 

Because it is lent. C. H 




f 



CS OA >^0 



BY bard unsung, by saga's love untold. 
Softly thou sinkest from the realms of space 

To soar again, nor find a resting-place, 
Though one should beckon thee and bid thee hold. 
Descend, sweet sprite ! nor be forever cold 

To my appeals ; show me thy jocund face, 

Thy easy attitudes of airy grace, 
Thy lazy limbs bedecked in blue and gold. 
Descend, and waft me with thee ; make me know 

That bliss unspeakable, that perfect joy_ 
That must be thine, when, leaving men below 

To swear, thou mock'st them, and with laughter coy 
Floatest to floors where they are fain to go, 

Thou gay. light-hearted elevator boy ! 



.-<=.. •">, 




REMORSE. 

MY spirit sits in ashes, breaking dust upon its head ; 
I 've said a silly thing, and now it cannot be unsaid. 
What boots it that to only two the wretched truth is known, 
If of the conscious pair who know it I myself am one ? 



I have my doubts — more doubts the more I think of what I 

said — 
If, really, half a loaf is much better than no bread ; 
For if a person is an ass, and duly bound to show it, 
Cold comfort 't is that he should have just sense enough to 

know it. M. 



TO MY LADY OF BOSTON. 




Ifear when you die, O my 
Lady, 
And pass through the heavenly 

gate; 

When you put on the wings of ^/fr. 
an angel, Xg^ 

You will never fly perfectly 

straight. -: 



When you rise on those Heav- 
enly pinions, 

And soar through that kingdom 
of Love, 



You will show a strange weak- 
ness for moving 
In the most select circles above. 
Vir. 



HOW? 

BV "CLYDE." 

HOW can a man on a dollar a day, 
Charter a seat at a popular play, 
And purchase cigars and tobacco, pray? 
He can't. 

How can he sport an elegant tile, 
Ask his dear friends to step out for a "smile," 
And stable a 2.40 animile? 
He can't. 

How can he frolic with better fed friends 
When, in cold perspiration he 's at his wits' ends 
If his wash-woman after her half-dollar sends ? 
He can't. 

How can he bear to be called a "poor cad," 
How can he dress in a big, fancy plaid, 
His credit won't keep — it is " fragrantly " bad ? 
He can't. 

How buy perfumery, handkerchiefs, too, 
The edges all stamped with a red kangaroo, 
And change linen cuffs every Sunday or two ? 
He can't. 

How can he go out to ride with his " mash" 
When he has n't the requisite cold-blooded cash ? 
Why that is his reason for not being rash — 
He can't. 

How can he claim his dear girl's slender hand, 
And circle her finger with glittering band. 
When his check-book 's so weak it scarcely can stand? 
He can't. 

How can he marry and furnish a wife 
With the many small comforts which sweeten this life? 
We must state the cold truth, tho' it cuts like a knife — 
He can't. 




SHE is not frivolous, my love, 
But relishes the wit of Horace ; 
Homer, of course, she ranks above 

All other bards, yet dotes on Morris. 
At Dobson's dainty little muse 

She is inclined to be a mocker. 
And would be willing to refuse 

A laurel wreath to Frederick Locker. 



Through Morris' Earthly Paradise 

It was a pleasure to beguile her; 
She found it altogether nice, 

And crunched confections, bought of Huyler. 
But I a mundane Eden found 

That knocked that one of Morris silly 
The day my wilful arm stole 'round 

Her waist, and she first called me " Billy." 

T. P. S. 





A RENDEZVOUS. 



A RENDEZVOUS. 

^T" 1 IS Christmas night. 
1 A ghostly light 
Illumines forgotten faces. 
With loving tread 
The feet of the dead 
Fall soft in familiar places. 



In these dim halls 

This night recalls 
Sweet memories death cannot chill. 

Faint finger tips 

And voiceless lips 
Bring the ghost of an old-time thrill 

Ah, many a year 

Has gone, since here. 
Her love and herself she gave; 

A blushing face, 

A long embrace — 
And he, to a soldier's grave. 

There's joy in meeting ; 

But hours are fleeting. 
And the saddest of all draws near, 

For light of dawn 

Will find them gone. 
And to sleep for another year. 



/. A. Mitchell. 




INDIAN SUMMER. 

QUATRAIN. 

NOW is the waning twilight of the year ; 
O'er drowsy fields in sombre russet drest 
The golden-rod is blazing like a torch 

That lights the weary summer to her rest. 

E. G. S. 



A CHANSONNETTE. 

YOU are singing so well, My Lady. 
And your voice seems filled with tears, 
As you sing of a long-lost spring-time, 
And youth and the misty years. 

And I wonder if you Ye forgotten 

That spring-time so long ago, 
When you and I wandered together, 

And both were — well, I don't know, 

For 't was not so very long after 
You married that wealthy beast. 

And I — well, I 'm an old bachelor, 
And do n't, of course, care the least. 

And you 're singing so well, My Lady; 

Like a pearl falls every note ; 
And nobody dreams, My Lady, of 

The lump there is in my throat. 

R. King 



A. D. 1885. 

' Varium et mutabile semper femina. 1 



Virgil. 



L 



IGHTLY she mocked him with jest and quip, 
And a curl of her red, disdainful lip ; 



Lightly she laughed, as he rode away 
In the golden gleam of a dying day. 

Spurring his steed with a tightened rein 
At the sound of her gay Auf wiedersehen, 

And cursing the cruel Fate that set 
His heart at the feet of a vain coquette. 

But the restless hound she held in check 
Felt the hand that lay on his shaggy neck 

Quiver and stir, while the shadows grew 
Uusky and dark in the tremulous blue 

Of her April eyes, and a weary sigh 
Broke unawares in her airy cry : 

" Aye, these are the times of Greed and Gold, 
And Love is a fashion too old — too old ! " 

M. E. IV. 






A TITLE CLEAR. 

MAYBE it was the Sunday fare; 
Maybe the Sunday sermon . 
Perhaps 't was but a plain nightmare - 
I never can determine. 



I dreamed I was an errant shade, 
With other shadows hieing 

Along a road whose downward grade 
Was simply terrifying. 

Before them all, with haughty head, 
One held the chief position. 

Whose lofty mien and stately tread 
Proclaimed his high condition. 



While in the eyes of all the rest 

Sat trouble and dejection, 
His gold-rimmed orbs alone expressed 

Approving introspection. 



We reached a river and embarked 

Upon a galley gloomy ; 
The seat the stranger took. I marked, 

Was elegant and roomy. 

When Charon came to punch his fare, 

The awe-inspiring spectre 
Transfixed him with a stony stare, 

And seemed to say. " Director." 

We reached at length the heavenly gate 
The press had free admissions — 

The common herd was forced to wait 
And loaded with conditions. 

The stranger handed in his card. 

While 'round the door we hovered, 
And to the high celestial guard 

His shapely head uncovered. 

I saw St. Peter smile and bow, 

Urbane and deferential ; 
The stranger's greeting was somehow, 

A shade more consequential. 

" Angel!" the saintly tylcr cried, 

A page straightway appearing. 
(I do n't remember that I tried 
To wholly keep from hearing.) 

I caught the words "Orchestra chair — 
Be sure you get the right one — 

See the harp-tuner ; and take care 
The halo is a bright one." 

" Look lively, too," St. Peter said, 
■' The gentleman is waiting." 

" Please register" — he bent his head, 
The great book indicating. 




a! 
< 

o 

>> 
z 
o 

H 






z 

H 



The stranger wrote. I read the scrawl 
The sacred page engrossed on ; 

The name was naught, the place was all — 
"J. Winthrop Wiggins, Boston." 

James Jeffrey Roche. 



A LOVE SONG. 

WRITTEN UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 

ONOW for a rhyme that is lyrical, 
Inspired by a vision of you ; 
A wonderful, metrical miracle 
Performed in a stanza or two. 

A song that shall know no impediments 
To frustrate the fling of its feet — 

A song that shall celebrate sediments 
Of sentiments sugary sweet. 

Ahem ! W 'ell your heavenly ocular 

Surpasses the crystalline gem ; 
Your lips have a hint of a jocular 

Expression becoming to them. 

That is all, and it 's incomprehensible ; 

I doubt if you know what 1 mean ; 
However. I think it 's as sensible 

As other love poems I 've seen. 

I 'm not very much on emotional 
Productions in verse, you can see, 

But I 'm sure I am quite as devotional 
As you would desire me to be. 

Idle Idyller. 



A POET'S MISERIES. 

(How he wrote it.) 

FROM out the garland on her breast, 
The brightest flower she chose, 
And underneath the fairy stars 
I kissed the ruby rose. 

(As copied by a Northern paper.) 

From out She. garment on her breast 
The brightest flower she chose, 

And underneath the airy stars 
I kissed her ruddy nose. 

(As copied from the foregoing by a Southern paper.} 

From out the garden on her waist. 

The liglitest flower she chose, 
And underneath the hairy stars 
1 kissed her muddy nose. 

(As copied from the foregoing by a Western paper.) 

From out the garden on her vest 
The tightest bower she chose, 

And underneath the dairy stairs 
1 kicked lier bloody nose. 

Ben Wood Davis 







O DISSOLUTE orb, that, in thy frequent state 
Of lonely fulness, 'cross the heavens dost glide ! 
'T is not thy loveliness that I do rate 
Thy most engaging quality. Nor yet 
Do I thy majesty so much admire. 
'T is thy ability to get so full. 
So gloriously, completely full, does fire 
My wond'ring soul with emulative wish. 



O reveler celestial ! Dost thou e'er 

For boon companions long, and weary grow 

Of lonely state, when on thy monthly tear ? 

Dost ever tip, 'cross heaven's spaces wide, 

To moons of Jupiter, convivial wink 

And ask their company ? Of Saturn's crew, 

With envious longing, dost thou ever think ? 

Alas, thy fate ! Though full, thou art forlorn. 



And still, thou type of crapulence, thy lot 

Has many compensations. Into quod, 

Thou fearless roysterer, thou 'It ne'er be brought, 

Though out all night in state called glorious. 

I envy thee. However full, next morn 

Will always see thee with a waning head 

And ne'er at loss to get another horn, 

For, never broke, thou 'st e'er a quarter left ! 

Allen k\-Uv. 



'TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP. 

LAST night, at the rink, 
1 made my confession. 
She had liked me, 1 think. 
'Till last night at the rink : 
I felt her form sink — 

I let go with discretion. 
Last night at the rink 
We made an impression. 



To L. H. B. 







ie is sitting directly before me, 
And my heart grows as heavy as lead, 
For he 's drawing with Nellie McVickar 
A study in yellow and red. 

All my life I shall hate those two colors - 
She looks so superbly to-night ; 

And I — I must look like a dowdy 
In my poor little dress of plain white. 



HE. 



She is peerlessly, perfectly lovely — 
So dainty, so fresh, and so fair ; 

Like one of those delicate flowers 
That lie 'mid the gold of her hair. 



SHE. 

He is thinking of no one hut Nellie, 
He don't even give me a glance; 

I 'dget him away from that creature 
If I only had half of a chance. 

Oh ! I think I am very unhappy ! 

But I can 't wear my heart on my sleeve. 
I wish I could tell him I — like him. 

I 'm tired of making believe. 

HE. 

How she looks at that donkey beside her, 
With a smile on her exquisite lips. 

Pah! she 's like all the rest of the women — 
A flirt to her finger-tips. 

But she shan't count me in as a victim. 

I will not be caught in her net : 
She may flirt 'till she 's tired with others, 

I decline to amuse a coquette. 



SHE. 

I am going to give him a favor, 

If it 's wanting in pride I don 't care ; 

I 'II just run up to him gaily 
And wear my most infantile air. 



28 



She is coming this way, my fair darling — 
She is leading me out for the waltz ; 

What a brute I have been to resist her — 
What a fool to imagine her false ! 

SHE. 
His dear arm is stealing around me — 

HE. 
She is lifting to me her sweet eyes — 

BOTH. 

On the throb and the swell of the music 
We float into Paradise! 

M. Este. 



OH! WHERE IS LOVE A-HIDING? 

OH ! where is Love a-hiding ? 
Pray tell me where he 's fled? 
For the roguish god 's deserted 

The heart he erstwhile wed. 
I wonder if he 's waiting 

Till I shall humbly sue, 
And promise ne'er to thwart him, 

Whatever he may do? 
O Love ! pray act your, pleasure. 

And I '11 not be averse — 
Aha ! the rogue ! I spy him ! 

He 's tugging at my purse ! 

J I 'arden Ma vloiut:. 





The reason, if I 've not forgot. 
Was she was pious, I was not ; 
No trifler should have her, she said, 
And left me, broken-hearted 

At five-and-twenty, I adored 

Amelia, but she left me. 
If I remember, I was told 
I had too small a share of gold. 
My grief, when she my ring restored, 
Well-nigh of life bereft me. 



At thirty I was overfond 

Of Grace, a lovely creature. 
She thought me arbitrary, set ; 
Too staid for such a merry pet. 
I made no sign, I think, beyond 

Some ruefulness of feature. 




1 'm forty. All are to be had. 

Unless their looks belie them, 
I could have either ; but, alack ! 
I 'm pledged to Jane. She'll not go back 
On me, not she ! And so, egad, 

I'll have no chance to try them ! 

Walter Clarke. 



WILTING. 

SHE gave the rose upon the spot. 
Her glowing eyes with love were lit. 
And life without it were a blot ; 

. But yet 't is wilting bit by bit, 
And I must sort of wonder what 
In thunder I shall do with it. 

J/. B. 




A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH. 



"I""* > put new shingles on old roofs; 
1 To give old women wadded skirts; 
To treat premonitory coughs 

With seasonable flannel shirts ; 
To soothe the stings of poverty 

And keep the jackal from the door — 
These are the works that occupy 

The Little Sister of the Poor. 

She carries, everywhere she goes, 

Kind words and chickens, jam and coals; 
Poultices for corporeal woes. 

And sympathy for downcast souls ; 
Her currant jelly — her quinine, 

The lips of fever move to bless. 
She makes the humble sick-room shine 

With unaccustomed tidiness. 



A heart, of hers the instant twin 

And vivid counterpart is mine; 
I also serve my fellow-men. 

Though in a somewhat different line. 
The Poor, and their concerns, she has 

Monopolized, because of which 
It falls to me to labor as 

A Little Brother of the Rich. 



For their sake at no sacrifice 

Does my devoted spirit quail; 
I give their horses exercise ; 

As ballast on their yachts I sail. 
Upon their Tally Ho's I ride 

And brave the chances of a storm ; 
1 even use my own inside 

To keep their wines and victuals warm. 



Those whom we strive to benefit 

Dear to our hearts soon grow to be : 
I love my Rich, and I admit 

That they are very good to me. 
Succor the Poor, my sisters, I. 

While heaven shall still vouchsafe me health 
Will strive to share and mollify 

The trials of abounding wealth. 

E. S. M. 



MATERNITY. 

A MOTHER — yet not wife nor maid. 
For days she sat, nor spoke nor stirred. 
She could not, would not bow her head. 
The sharp-closed lips gave forth no word. 

The father of her children came. 
But left her there, to live or die; 

And yet her cheek flushed not with shame. 
No tear bedewed her weary eye. 

Men came and looked. She reared her head 
Nor flinched before their questioning gaze. 

" Let time fulfill its work," they said ; 
Then sped them on their several ways. 

One day her place was vacant. Men 
Found near it the untasted food — 

And proudly our old speckled hen 
Led forth her downy, callow brood. 

Ovell. 



TEMPORA MUTANTUR. 

IN olden Tyme wh nne valiaunt Knvghtes 
Disputed f r each otheres Ryghtes. 
Wlvine Maydes w re foughte f r — Th" ni! I wot 
F r Monie, Love was nevere boughte. 

Alack ! Those goode old Daies have passed, 
Y e Foppe succeedes y e Knyghte at laste. 
Love breedes contentiones as of Olde, 
But Steele has given waie to Golde ! 

IV. S. Case 



(lM)MODESTY. 

[ Written after reading Professor Hill's article on " English 
in the Schools, ' in Harper's Monthly for Jitnc.\ 

I AM a modest little maid, 
Who thinks it more polite 
To bid a man "good-evening" 

Than bid a man " good-night." 
And if the human members 
Are introduced by him, 
I always call an arm an arm, 
A leg a " lower limb." 

I am a modest little maid 

Who never goes to bed, 
But to my chamber I "retire" 

Most properly instead. 
And when the chaste Aurora 

Unseals my sleepy eyes. 
The act which some call getting up 

I designate "to rise." 

I never speak of feeling sick, 

But say that 1 am " ill," 
And being in my dressing-gown 

I style en deshabille. 
In fact, 1 always hesitate 

To call a spade a spade, 
Because, you see, 1 try to be 

A modest little maid. 

. Robert Grant . 




i i 




POETICAL IMPECUNIOSITY. 

T gathering dusk I sit and muse, 

Where fountains play and music thrills. 

And wonder if I can enthuse 
My soulful soul to pay my bills. 

Alas ! I fear such thoughts are vain, 
For though in bliss my fancy rolls. 

This fact is always cold and plain, 
Hard cash eludes the soulful souls. 

IV. J. IK 



MUSING. 



BENEATH the broad elm's pleasant shade 
Where Nell and I, child lovers, played 
I tarried. 
Yes, Nell, we 've changed since then 't is true ; 
I 'm gray-haired, old, and wiser. You 
Are married. 

Pray tell if you, as I, e'er dream 

Of childhood's hours ; and if they seem 

As sweet. 
Or is your life with fuss and care 
For what to eat, and what to wear. 
Complete ? 

Ah ! Mrs. Jones, no doubt you think 
For memory's pangs the shekels' clink 

Atones. 
| 'T was all for rhyme, that cynic's sigh, 
Because, my gentle reader, I 
Am Jones.] 



36 



A POEM OF POVERTY. 

IF I had more a year, love. 
If I had more a year, 
I 'd take you to the opera. 

Which now would look quite queer; 
On carriages and Jacqueminots 

I 'd make it disappear ; 
Candy, ice-cream — whate'er you chose, 
If I had more a year. 



If I had more a year, love, 

I should my love confess, 
1 'd give you every kind of chance 

To softly murmur, " Yes." 
You might accept me then, I think, 

We '11 settle down next year — 
The other men could take to drink, 

If I had more a year. 



If I had more a year, love, 

'T would very soon be shown 
If 'tis Cor not) a pleasant thing 

To live for one alone. 
You're something like your mother, now; 

You '11 grow more like, I fear, 
Perhaps 'tis better, anyhow, 

I have n't more a year. 

.1/. B. 




BELINDA is fifteen, 
Hath hair of golden sheen, 
And her eyes 
Are the regulation blue. 
Such as we 're accustomed to 
Idolize. 



38 



She hath a winning grace, 
Complement of such a face 

Of fifteen ; 
And this dainty little body 
Is determined that she '11 study 

Medicine. 

Was ever thought so crazy 
Entertained by such a daisy 

Of the field ? 
Surely not ; but still the notion 
Of professional devotion 

Will not yield. 

On the beach at Narragansett 
She doth scan the London Lancet, 

And I ween 
Through her reading comprehensive 
She is "up" on that expensive 

Cocaine. 

She doth cultivate affection 
For Lequard and vivisection ; 

Though as yet 
She doth draw her skirt around her 
When she passeth by a flounder 

In a net. 

And I wish you could behold her 
In the lee of some big boulder 

At her ease, 
In profound preoccupation. 
Getting points on circulation. 

If you please. 

Ah, this winsome little gold-head! 
When the winged years have folded 

On the scene 
Of this fancy, will the thronging 
Of her lovers set her longing 

For fifteen? 



If, at length, she must confess 
To a cardiac distress 

Which an elf 
With a bended bow hath brought her. 
Can she then, tho' Galen taught her, 
Cure herself ? 

Mark Mallow . 



IMPRUDENT PRUDENCE. 

RONDE-AU CONTRAIRE. 

WHEN Prudence was a bud untaught. 
And took the caramels I bought. 
With golden ribbons 'round the box, 
The very color of her locks, 
She was a paragon, I thought. 

Each idle word she lisped was fraught 
With sentiments that came unsought. 
Yet well I knew to play the fox 
When Prudence was. 

The countless battles then I fought 
With Cupid, all have come to naught ; 
My heart withstood his rebel knocks 
And never fluttered for her frocks ; 
Egad, I found I was n't caught 

When Prudence was. 



Idle Idyller 







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TOMMY'S TALE. 



MAMMA, does sister Anna know the Captain very well? 
I know just why I think so, but I promised not to tell. 
Still, if you really want to hear, and won't give me away, 
I'll tell you what I saw when you were out the other day. 



The Captain came and rang the bell, and asked if she was in, 
And when John Thomas said she was, you should have seen 

him grin, 
And sister Anna sent me off to play with Bob upstairs, 
But I saw she was embarrassed, so I did n't mind her airs. 

As soon as nurse had gone away, why, me and Bob came bat k. 
And underneath the parlor door we found an awful crack. 
So we just lay down quite quietly outside upon the floor 
And glued our eyeses to the crack and 




THIS IS WHAT WE SAW. 

Sekadt'e 



TO A CONTRIBUTOR. 

WE must return your witty song. 
Although the brightest of its sort, 
Because your poem is too long. 

And Life, you know, is very short. 




V 



A DROP of rain, a sudden gust, 
A dark cloud in the sky ; 
I turned my head and saw her just 

As she was passing by. 
Her ribbons fluttered bark and forth, 

And through the gauzy veiling 
There came a wind from out the north. 
That set her loose locks sailing. 

1 'm rather fond of rosy girls 

I see upon the street ; 
I 'm fond of little forehead-curls, 

I 'm fond of little feet. 
I 'm rather partial to the wind — 

A moderate procella — 
That whisks the veil securely pinned, 

And tosses the umbrella. 



O tempora ! mores J too ; 

O heart, the slave of fate, 
To think that for a maiden's shoe 

You wildly palpitate ! 
And you, my fair Anonymous, 

You 've left a joy that rankles ; 
How naughty 't was, my dear, to thus 

Expose two pretty ankles ! 

Idle Idyller. 





FROZEN OUT. 

A TALE OF THE NICARAGUA CANAL. A.D. 19 — . 

OOME hither, little Britisher, and listen while I tell 

About the great climatic change that long ago befell. 
Take off your little Arctic shoes ; hang up your reindeer hood ; 
And you shall have some blubber pie if you be nice and good. 

T was in the old and wicked days your Uncle Sam began 
To dig his great canal beside the river San Juan, 
And when they saw him work so hard and get along so slow. 
The foreign nations laughed ha! ha! and eke they laughed ho ! ho! 



But when the work was done at last and he began to build 
His mighty forts on either side, with anger they were rilled. 
They met in hasty conference one morning at Berlin, 
The very day that he had fixed to let the water in. 








And as the water and the talk did simultaneous flow, 

The Caribbean Sea ran dry and the Gulf of Mexico. 

' it 
The great Gulf Stream which used to wash and warm all Wf 

Europe free 

Was siphoned through the new canal into the Southern Sea. 

Next day a little cablegram covered with ice and snow 
Came staggering over to Sandy Hook, and this its tale of woe 
A wave of more than Arctic cold had suddenly ariz, 
fn spite of grammar or precedent, and the whole of Europe fri 

And every port was blocked with ice, and every town with snow ; 
You could travel on skates from Liverpool to the Bay of Biscay O. 
The savans, all at loggerheads the reason to unfold, 
For some maintained 'twas lack of heat, others, excess of cold. 

"Whatever the cause," said the cablegram, kicking its 

frozen heels, 
'• Europe for sympathy and help to its Uncle Sam appeals." 
"The reason is plain," said Uncle Sam, and he winked his 

aged eye, 
" You 've neglected to pay your water rates, and I 've cut off 

the supply." 



45 



He laughed ha ! ha ! and he laughed ho ! ho ! did wily Uncle 

Sam, 
As he sent in his little bill of costs by the little cablegram. 
The air of Europe was black that day with blasphemy and sin. 
But the nations did as we all must do when the plumber's bill 

comes in. 

$100,000,000,000 cash ! and oh ! they roundly swore, 

When they found the Gulf Stream didn 't flow as it useter did 

before. 
It w'as a pious dodge, my child, to put down war and slaughter, 
For it made the nations keep the peace to keep out of hot 

water. 

James Jeffrey Roche. 



TO PRUE WITH HER CANDLE. 

ONE white finger through the handle 
Of the brazen dish I see : 
Here comes Prudence with her candle — 
Here comes Prudence — woe to me ! 

Like the slender waxen taper. 

Slowly burning in the flame. 
Is the heart that can 't escape her 

And the magic of her name. 

Love must have its blows and buffets — 

Well, I comprehend my fate. 
Good-night, Prudence ! Gently snuff its 

Little life out : it is late. 

Idle Idvller. 



46 




MY TIGER. 

HO sits beside my box-seat, trim 

In stiff rigidity of limb, 
While other drags try passing him ? 

My Tiger. 



A pot-hat decks his reddish hair, 
Above his set, sarcastic stare 
When watching my high-trotting mare ; 

My Tiger. 

Who drives me home from club at night, 
'Neath darkness or electric light, 
As though 't were some besotted wight ? 

My Tiger. 

Who, faithful, tucks me in my bed 
Placing moist flannels on my head. 
And wakes me when the forenoon 's fled ? 

My Tiger. 

Who puts aside the clam 'ring Jew, 
When raising such a row and stew 
About some notes long overdue ? 

My Tiger. 

A valet, cook and waiter, too. 

He stirs my glass of " mountain dew; " 

I'll drink a health to him, so true — 

My Tiger. 

/. D. S. 




?*> 



AN ECLIPSE OF VENUS. 

WE said good-bye when all the birds 
Flew homeward to the South ; 
Two very unimportant words 

Framed in a rosebud mouth ; 
I held a slender hand awhile — 

I knew it wasn 't right — 
And when I missed her sunny smile, 
It seemed the depth of night. 

A very common incident, 

Yet when a year had passed, 
Whate'er I did, where'er I went, 

Remembrance held it fast ; 
1 longed to see her rosy face 

Below her soft brown hair. 
And so I sought the charmed place, 

And waited for her there. 

O, where was Edith — where was she 

Who once had graced this spot? 
Here was the seat beneath the tree, 

But Edith — she was not. 
Ye stars above that shine so pure, 

Hear my Apocalypse ! 
My star was on her wedding tour, 

And I was in eclipse. 

Idle Idyller. 



4 8 



TWO SCENES FROM WINTER AND ONE FROM 
SOME 'ER' ELSE. 





& ■>'> 1 ' 



E knelt beside her pillow- 
In the dead watch of the night, 
And he heard her gentle breathing; 
But her face was still and white ; 

And on her poor wan 
cheek a tear 
Told how the heart 
can weep; 
And he said, "My love 
\ was weary — 

God bless her; she's 
\ asleep ! " 



W-i 



jr^' 



-:' o.ih 



He knelt beside her 
grave-stone 
In the shuddering autumn night, 
And he heard the grasses rustle, 

And his face was thin and white : 
And through his heart the tremor ran 

Of grief that cannot weep ; 
And he said, "My love was weary — 
God bless her ; she 's asleep ! " 

William Winter. 

He stood beside another 

At the Altar's sacred base, 
And he held her hand in silence 

As he gazed upon her face. 
And then he spoke the solemn words ; 

A sense secure and deep 
Took possession of him as he 

Thought, " The other one 's asleep." 



THE BISHOP AND THE BALLET GIRL. 

I. 

CUPID one day, while flying about. 
Caught sight of a Bishop who 'd just stepped out, 
In robes of the very last English invention. 
To grace with his presence the General Convention. 
Says Cupid, the rascal, as bold as brass, 
•' I do n't know the man, but he looks like an ass." 

II. 
Across the street tripped Miss Mary Magique, 
Premiere danseuse of the Theatre Comique. 
The devil himself could n't guess her age, 
But still she made up very well for the stage, 
" Hurrah," says Cupid, " She'll make him a wife, 
She'll lead that old party a deuce of a life." 




of&feg 




III. 
So he bent his bow, and he fired his dart; 
Bishop and Ballet Girl felt the smart. 
The Bishop looked wheedlesome, sad to say, 
While she seemed coy, as is often the way. 
•' Ha, ha." says Cupid, " I 've saved one more; 
He won't want to marrv his sister-in-law." 



IV. 



The General Convention waited all day. 
Wondering what kept that good Bishop away. 
They waited from morning till evening dim, 
But they '11 wait pretty long if they wait for him, 
For he married in haste the engaging Magique, 
And now he 's frequenting the Theatre Comique. 

Sekadee, 



A POOR YOUNG MAN TO HIS GIRL. 

A JEWEL rare are you, dear Anne. 
But can you use a frying pan ? 
Or get a meal for a hungry man ? 
O, I will wed you if you can, 
Sweet Anne ! 

Your dainty fingers wield a fan. 
But can they wash a pot or pan ? 
Sweep, bake and brew ? Oh, if they can. 
I am, in truth the very man, 
Sweet Anne ! 

You work in Kensington, fair Anne, 
Play, sing and dance, but if you can 
Well mend my pants, none other than 
Myself can worship like this man, 
Sweet Anne ! 



MOON-BURNT. 

ONE moonlight night a happy boy 
Of cherries stole a pailful. 
The farmer quickly turned his joy 

Into a sorrow baleful. 
And while he roared, it came to pass, 
A settled fact the boy learned, 
That being tanned by moonlight was 

Far worse than being sun-burned. 

M. M. G. 



s 




HOW grave she sits and toots 
In the glare ! 
From her dainty bits of boots 

To her hair, 

Not the sign remotest shows 

If she either cares or knows 

How the beer-imbibing beaux 

Sit and stare. 



They 're most liberal with sighs, 

Or they laugh ; 
They cast adoring eyes 

As they quaff ; 
They exhaust their every wile 
Her attention to beguile. 
Do they ever win a smile ? 

Not by half ! 

Now she leans upon her chair — 

Not a toot ! 
While the leading violin 

And the flute 
Wail and plead in low duet 
Till, it may be, eyes are wet. 
She her trombone doth forget --- 

She is mute. 

The music louder grows ; 

She 's awake ! 
She applies her lips and blows — 

Goodness' sake! .... 
To think that such a peal 
From such throat and frame ideal - 
From such tender lips could steal. 

Takes the cake. 

The dinning cymbals shrill 

Kiss and clash. 
Drum and kettle-drum at will 

Roll and crash. 
But that trombone over all 
Toots unto my heart a call : — 
Maid petite and trombone tall. 

It ' s a mash ! 

Yet I hesitate — for lo. 

What a point ! 
She 's poetic ; and, I know, 

/ am stout. 
In her little room would she 
Sit and toot, as thus, to me, 
On her trombone, tenderly ? 

Ah! I doubt! 

Charles G. D. Roberts 



HER WICKER CHAIR. 



AH, wicker chair, all trimmed with blue, 
With cushioned plush of dainty hue ! 
Thou held 'st a being of such grace 
Within thy generous embrace ! 
Of form divine and fair to view. 

Her eyes like glist'ning drops of dew 
Rebuked me when I tried to woo. 
And in them find of love a trace, 

Ah, wicker chair ! 



But when my suit I tried anew. 
She leaned still further back in you; 

She calmly fixed some wayward lace, 
And cast, while gazing in my face, 
Sad doubts upon my revenue. 

Ah, wicker chair. 

/. K. Bangs. 




THE MOTHER'S PLAINT. 

NO more his patt'ring little feet 
I hear about the hall. 
No more his song my ear to greet. 
No more his plaintive squall. 

No more his racket can be heard. 

No more his choo-choo car. 
No more my precious little bird 

Gives forth his yell — " Mam-MAR ! " 

No. no, not dead ! The little fool 

'S no longer with us now : 
We sent him off to boarding-school. 

He kicked up such a row. 

CarlyU Smith 



THE LAST GUESTS. 



A 



DAY on the turf. 
A dip in the surf, 
A stroll arm-in-arm on the shingle ; 
A sail on the bay. 
A game of croquec, 
A touch of the hand —and a tingle. 

A bitter-sweet jest, 

A tennis-court test — 
( The guests are all gone but we tarry , ) 

A last buggy-ride, 

A pang as she sighed, 
'• I like you, but never shall marry." 

Harold Van Santvoord. 










|EING as it was sultry weather 

The Flowers, bent upon improvement, 
Came all of one a scent together 

To start an early closing; movement. 




When each and all had had their say 
In speeches long, and flowery, too, 

They all agreed 'twould B — o — quet 
To close their buds at half-past two. 

Alas ! one Bee was not O. K., 

He found too late, unto his sorrow. 

When he for honey called that day 

The stores were closed until the morrow. 



O.H. 



% 1 



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56 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




